


cleave

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Lingerie, M/M, Nook Eating, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your matesprit is recovering from loneliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cleave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vapours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vapours/gifts).



> of course my first adventure into writing homestuck fic is pwp rarepair xenosmut

Your matesprit is recovering from loneliness. You know how long he has spent searching for any kind of quadrant fulfillment, any kind of contact, any kind of care for his being, though you will never admit to knowing this unless he demands it. The time the two of you spend together, whether in his hive or yours, fills up with moments of you building a pile out of past broken piles while he stands by fidgeting with the hem of his cape or the end of his scarf; of you wanting to hold him because he wants you to hold him but you’re scared you’re too STRONG and you’ll break him and anyway he won’t order you to because he’s not used to having someone who wants to hold him; of the two of you finally settling down on the concupiscent platform where again and again he reveals that he has worn something frilly and purple and “special” underneath his striped pants, just for you, which you, too STRONG again, shred when you go to pull them off of him.

You apologize, which makes you sweat. He says You better fuckin wwatch it lowwblood you’re lucky enough havvin me as your matesprit, which makes you sweat even harder. Then he kisses you, folding a towel into your hand while your eyes are closed. Dry off, he says, and you do.

Not that it helps. You keep right on sweating. There aren’t enough fresh towels in the whole of Her Imperious Condescension’s intergalactic empire to dry you off, especially not in the presence of your matesprit, especially not when he’s straddling your lap in nothing but the thong you’ve destroyed and his t-shirt, the golden rings on his fingers glinting in the lamplight. When he reaches up to remove his glasses his claw touches his earfin and then not only do you sweat, but you pant, too.

Such scandal. Delightful scandal, a land-dwelling highblood like you flushed for a seadweller like him, and he’s flushed in return. It shouldn’t be, and you still feel the twinges of tradition guiding you toward self-satisfaction when you wrap your hands around his slender thighs and your STRENGTH makes him wince a little. Such scandal and such tangles. You should be feuding with him, but he is royalty and therefore above you, so you should kneel to him, but he just won’t order you to, and then on top of it all you want to pull him to your chest and keep him safe there, so he won’t ever have to be lonely again. What in the heavens do you do.

I demand you demand I kiss you, you say, your trembling palms clammy on his thighs.

He says Cod damnit, Equius, I ain’t gonna order you around wwhen you’re orderin me to do it, that’s fuckin stupid. Wwhat if I don’t evven wwanna kiss you?  
You would rather not consider the possibility of that. You want his lips on yours, you want to snake your tongue past the razor-gates of his teeth and slick it over his, but only if he wants it. The fun is in the wanting, you think.

Actin like all there is to bein matesprits is mackerelin on each other, he says. Lie dowwn.

So it begins.

You lie back, the cushiony pile in your respiteblock giving under the solid weight of your back, your shoulders, even your head. He scoots up toward you on his knees. While he plucks the cracked sunglasses from your face he settles on your chest, then straightens himself upright to inch forward until you catch the hot, salty breath of his nook in your nose. With ease his bulge has unfurled from him, poking between two filaments of rent undertrapping and lashing about already, but to get to his nook you must push the ropes of the garment’s crotch out of the way.

They snap apart in the grip of your fingers. In the beginnings of a rage you ball your fists, and the unforgivable emerges from your throat.

Fiddlesti%.

If you don’t start eatin my nook in twwo seconds, Equius.

And so you fly into a frenzy of obedience. The strings of shredded panty all but vaporize when you tug them out of the way. You crane your neck up. You taste the rich, saline juices that pulse violet from his opening, they cover your tongue, paint it. His inner walls begin fluttering after only moments. Pliant and velvety, they give under the weight of your tongue rolling across them. Some cool sensation, the kind of rogue breeze that always says hello in the drafty corridors of your hive, alerts you that your own bulge is throbbing and glistening on your stomach. If he were to taste you right now, taste that damp gloss coating your bulge, you wonder if he’d find you every bit as delicious as you find him.  
He tugs on your hair. He is fighting not to howl out his ecstasy but hissing soldiers of whimpers and whines and sighs charge through the barrier where his teeth clamp hard upon his lower lip. You swallow a burning blend of his genes and your saliva, an indigo rivulet down the back of your throat. When his claws dig sharp into your scalp you grunt but when he offers a weak thrust of his hips you moan aloud, though the sound muffles and reverberates against the lip of his nook.

He wails. Then, through a choked sob, Either get the bucket or fuck me.

You are so flustered you nearly forget not to grab him as forcefully as you are able. Oh my, you whisper. With your hands around his thighs you slide him off of your mouth—with one long lick at the underside of his bulge as he goes, which sends him gasping once more—and down toward your bulge. Seconds that feel to you even shorter and he has spread himself, angled himself, so your bulge can twine up into him. He bears his weight on his palms, flat and spread on your chest, while he adjusts to the girth, the length, the whipping, the texture. His fingers scrabble at your skin as if searching for some soft part of you he can gather and cling to, like a piece of fabric, but you are far too STRONG to be anything but solid, tectonically solid.

His eyes flutter open. Yours lock to his, but he blinks them closed again. When he opens them the next time, he is already focusing on your torso. Fuck, he squeaks.

You’ve let your hands rest on his thighs for far too long. Before he starts moving, a short jerky slide back and forth against your hips, you move one of your hands around to his ass, scraping between the soft skin that curves to fit so neatly into your palm and the small of his back. The other you hold with the fingers outstretched by his bulge, and you let it snake between and around your fingers. It moves with frantic whipping motions. The tip never for a second stays still, continuing to writhe even in the moments when the rest of it coils so tightly around one of your fingers that it begins to squeeze and constrict. When you look at his face, with his teeth clenched and his eyes shut and violet coloring his cheeks, both in the hue of a flush and in speckles of sweat, you know that the feeling in his bulge is what guides his expressions. He is so tight. He arches his back in time with the movements of your bulge inside him, the curls and the lashes. You must create space for yourself. Forge this void of yours within him.

Then he collapses on you. He says nothing, just inches downward, getting a bit more of your bulge into his nook. Curious, you think, that his moans grow deeper. Curious, you think, but knowing that you have the ability to give this to him becomes an emotion in and of itself. That he can cling to you like this, cling to you while you are inside of him, and offer no kind of order, and you do not even feel the need to order him to give you an order, and it is you doing this for him, you and no one else, and his body is the warmest degree of cool you’ve ever felt against you.

He plucks a bucket from his captchalogue as if he knows better than you do that thinking about how ‘flushed’ means exactly what you two are right now will send your genetic material pulsing into him and his, at the same time, outward. His climax half-fills the pail. Later, as he empties his holding sac to finish filling it, you lie on your back and wonder whether he thought the same as you.

The possibility makes you sweat. He places the pail on the floor, and when he sits back upright, he throws a clean, fresh towel onto your damp chest. Blue perspiration and trenches of blood dug by his nails seep into the cloth.

Allow me to express my gratitude, you say, since you have a feeling that, like always, no matter what you say, he will call you something disparaging.

He replies, Ya fuckin nasty.

You would tell him how red you are for him if he’d command it. Sooner or later, you think, he will.


End file.
